


An Evening on the Porch

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:05:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7207040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanley and Fiddleford spend an evening on the porch with a few beers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Evening on the Porch

Stanley and Fiddleford sat on the back porch of the house. Stanford was somewhere inside, basement most likely, tinkering and studying and doing anything but sleep because sleep was a luxury that apparently couldn’t be indulged when there was science to be done. Fiddleford admired his coworker’s zeal but at the same time he was just waiting for the day the man would crash so they wouldn’t have to worry so much.

Fiddleford took a long sip from his can of beer, letting the alcohol relax his usually stiff posture. He tugged at his tie, loosening it further until it hung comfortably loose around his neck. He glanced to his drinking partner and let his eyes drink in something far more delicious. Where Fiddleford was just getting relaxed, the beer making his head a pleasant fuzzy, Stanley already seemed relaxed, his frame casually stretched across the mustard yellow couch just like his broad t-shirt was stretched across the width of his shoulders. The porch lights lent a certain atmosphere to the hazy summer night, it was almost as if the spirits had granted Fiddleford this view; Stanley’s head relaxedly tipped back in contentment, his body laid spread for the taking.

Fiddleford had to stop himself from continuing that line of thought. Stanley and he were good friends. Coworkers. He shouldn’t jeopardize that no matter how cute Stanley looked or no matter how nice he smelt, mixed in with the scent of pines trees. An errant summer breeze passed through the air and Fiddleford let the wind cool his heated cheeks.

“Y’know.” Stanley said, breaking the peaceful quietness that the two had been holding onto since Stanley waved a 12-pack in front of Fiddleford with a silent nod to the back porch, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed…ever. What’cha thinkin’ bout?”

Fiddleford sipped at his beer and looked towards the twinkling stars above. Gravity Falls sure was beautiful at night. The stars and the high tree tops, the summer air and the faint sense of magic in the air, just around the hardly trampled paths; it was all so mesmerizing. Almost without thought, Fiddleford said, “How cute ya are.”

And then he immediately regretted it.

Stanley only coughed once to be fair, and didn’t seem to be gearing his large meaty fists for a connection with Fiddleford’s face but in the humid summer night with no distractions except for the strained quiet, Fiddleford couldn’t help but panic. He stood hastily, not yet impaired by the small amount of alcohol he consumed, and started to head to his truck parked in the driveway. He could rent a motel for the night, or for the rest of his stay in Gravity Falls (that now that his heart was in a trench and his head was spinning, seemed to become awfully short). His feet was just about to land on the springy grass when suddenly there was a large hand on his shoulder.

Fiddleford jumped and turned around to face Stanley. He braced himself. “You…you don’t have to leave.” Stanley’s gruff voice provided, “but if you want to; at least help me finish off the twelve pack first?” It ended up sounding like a question but it was a question Fiddleford couldn’t say no to. He wasn’t rejecting him. That was all he could ask for.

Fiddleford slowly sat back to the far end of the couch, accepting the new beer can for himself and silently berating himself for the half finished beer that was currently rolling it’s contents onto the porch. He should say sorry. He should explain himself. Fiddleford opened his mouth to do these things, but his mouth clenched shut when Stanley sat next to him. Very next to him. Where the two had previously been a friendly distance away, now Stanley was within arms distance, highlighted by the fact that he spread his arms around the back of the couch and his left arm just so happened to span the length of Fiddleford’s shoulders. Their sides weren’t pressing against each other but Stanley’s legs were brushing against his own knees and wow this wasn’t at all how Fiddleford thought this night was going to turn out.

Stanley and Fiddleford drank on in silence, the only disturbance being a the crickets chirping in their search for a mate and the slow hiss that comes from opening a can of beer. Eventually Stanley spoke again when only four cans of beer were left.

“So,” he said, “you think I’m cute? Not, like, manly or anything?”

Fiddleford who was slowly being lulled to sleep by the alcohol and the burgeoning warmth he felt under the midnight summer sky jerked back awake, acutely aware that Stanley must’ve been bothered by the increasing pressure on his shoulder. He would’ve scooted away but the arm around his shoulder didn’t allow him any further movement without seeming rude. He gripped his beer can harder and blinked owlishly. He couldn’t tell if his bleary eyesight was because of his drowsiness or the alcohol or both.

“Whut?” Fiddleford asked, his tongue thick in his mouth.

“I asked why you thought I was cute and not manly as all hell.”

Oh. Oh no. Fiddleford groaned, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees. He raised his beer to his forehead, the cold aluminium doing nothing to soothe him. He shook his head, “Can we not have this conversation?” Fiddleford asked.

“Nope.” Stanley said, taking a loud sip of his beer. “C’mon, out with it, why am I cute and not handsome or manly?”

Fiddleford looked back at Stanley and then cracked a smile, “Well first of all, you’re pouting.”

“Am not.” Stanley said. Fiddleford watched as Stanley struggled to keep his face straight. Continuing onward, Fiddleford with his too-honest-for-his-own-good soul, started listing off Stanley’s cute markers, emboldened by the alcohol running through his veins.

“But ya are cute. You’re cute when you wake up, hair all messy; you’re cute when you’re tryin’ to slick your hair back with a comb and a ton of gel but you can’t get that one piece to stick down; you’re cute when you laugh at the comics in the newspaper in the mornin’; you’re cute when you get weepy over that old Dutchess show when you think no one else’s in the house-”

There was a strangled noise from Stanley’s throat. From where Fiddleford was, so close to his face -and how did that happen exactly - he could see the growing blush creep to the tip of Stanley’s ears. The wind whistled through the trees, the sound of gnarled branches raking against each other almost covering Stanley’s murmur. Almost. Sitting so close, even if Stanley was whispering Fiddleford was sure he could read the other man’s lips.

He said, “I think you’re cuter than me.”

Fiddleford’s heart pounded loud in his ears at that. “Excuse me?” He asked, trying to make sure what he heard was correct. (And maybe, wanting to hear those words a second time.)

“I said,” Stanley repeated with great reluctance, “I think you’re cuter than me.”

“Yeah?” Fiddleford asked.

“Yeah.” Stanley said. “Every time you weld you got smudges on your cheeks and every time you smile you get these little dimples and-”

Stanley was interrupted by a kiss, chaste and light against the corner of his mouth. Then before he knew it he was interrupted by more kisses. Then his hands were in Fiddleford’s hair and there were arms around his neck and the kisses got more and more sloppy and it wasn’t long until he was hard in his pants. It wasn’t long until Fiddleford noticed it too.

“Someone’s excited.” Fiddleford said as their foreheads bumped into each other, Fiddleford’s bright blue eyes looking at Stanley from above his glasses.

“‘S been a long time.” Stanley stated. He was about to scooch back and suggest heading inside when Fiddleford moved closer to his ear.

“I can take care of that for you.” Fiddleford whispered before slithering down, pressing kisses where he could, until his head was near crotch level. The outline of Stanley’s hard on wasn’t that hard to see in the porch light; quite noticeable really with the tight jeans and all, and so there Fiddleford sat on the wooden floorboards of the porch a hair breadths away silently asking permission to continue.

“Yes, please.” Stanley finally squeaked out. And so Fiddleford went off to work.

It didn’t take much for Stanley to come undone; like he had said, it had been a long time. Still, Stanley felt a little embarrassed at how fast he came. It seemed he didn’t fully get to enjoy the pleasure of Fiddleford’s pretty lips around his cock, kissing licking and sucking, or the feeling of Fiddleford’s long thin fingers playing with his balls until he was suddenly erupting.

“Sorry Fidds.” Stanley stated, though honestly he felt too stated to be properly apologetic.

“Nothin’ to worry about darlin’.” Fiddleford said as he stood up. Stanley opened his arms and Fiddleford fell into them gratefully. Stanley, lulled by alcohol and the release of pent up tension fell asleep quickly. Fiddleford, having equally imbibed and pillowed by a meaty chest with a steady heartbeat, felt his own eyelids start to droop.


End file.
